Chapter 7 - Two Mothers
Carol called the next morning and asked if I wanted to walk.
Not coffee.
Not lunch.
Walk.
It was thirty-eight degrees and threatening rain.
I said yes.
We met along the lakefront bundled in coats, two women in our late sixties pretending the wind was refreshing.
Carol lasted seven minutes before saying, “Jessica told me they may separate.”
“Daniel told me too.”
“She blames the money.”
“So does he.”
“What do you blame?”
I watched a runner pass us with the aggressive optimism of someone under thirty.
“Cowardice.”
“Whose?”
“All of ours, apparently.”
Carol smiled despite herself.
We walked another block.
“I encouraged Jessica to set boundaries with you,” she said.
“I know.”
“She called me crying after Lily was born because you had rearranged the nursery while she was in the hospital.”
I stopped walking.
“I did not rearrange the nursery.”
“You moved the crib away from the window.”
“The window was drafty.”
“You see how fast you answered that?”
I started walking again.
“Fine.”
“She felt invaded.”
“I was trying to keep a newborn warm.”
“I know. That’s what makes you difficult to argue with. You usually have a good reason.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“It wasn’t praise.”
We reached a bench facing the gray lake.
Carol sat.
“I also told her she should stop taking your money if she hated the strings.”
I looked at her.
“She never told me that part.”
“She didn’t like that part.”
“So what did she say?”
“That Daniel would never agree. He thinks your money is family money.”
I stared at the water.
That phrase bothered me because it was not entirely invented.
When Daniel was in medical school, I used to say, “There’s no yours and mine. We’re family.”
When he apologized for tuition, I said, “This is what the money is for.”
When his father’s life insurance helped me stay in our house after the funeral, I told him the same thing.
Somewhere along the way, a sentence meant to make a grieving boy feel safe had become an adult assumption.
Carol took off one glove and rubbed her fingers together.
“I was not innocent in this either,” she said. “When Jessica complained about you, sometimes I enjoyed it.”
I turned toward her.
“That may be the first thing you’ve said today that I completely believe.”
She laughed. “Fair.”
“Why?”
“Because you made me feel inadequate.”
I stopped walking again.
“I barely knew you.”
“You paid for things I could never pay for. You took the children to museums, shows, trips. I brought homemade cookies and coupons for the zoo.”
“Carol—”
“I know now that the kids never ranked us that way. I did.”
Her honesty embarrassed me on her behalf and mine. I had assumed her distance came from envy and then, without meaning to, behaved as if the cure for envy was even more generosity.
We had both been competing in a contest the grandchildren had never created.
“Jessica grew up watching me count grocery money.”
I knew Carol had divorced when Jessica was nine.
I had not known much beyond that.
“Her father paid support when he felt like it,” Carol continued. “I worked two jobs for a while. I don’t think Jessica ever stopped being afraid of not having enough.”
“That doesn’t excuse O’Hare.”
“No.”
“She lied to you.”
“Yes.”
“She lied to my grandchildren.”
“Yes.”
Carol looked at me.
“And you are still allowed to understand her.”
I hated that sentence because it sounded like something I would have told a family during a difficult medical meeting.
Understanding does not equal excusing.
I had said it a hundred times.
It was less pleasant when applied to me.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Jessica.
Can we talk without Daniel?
I showed Carol.
She sighed.
“That child has never done anything the easy way.”
“She’s thirty-nine.”
“Still my child.”
I thought of Daniel at forty-one.
“Fair.”
Jessica came to my house that afternoon.
She did not wear makeup.
I had rarely seen her without it.
She stood in the foyer holding her purse with both hands.
“Is Daniel here?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I led her to the kitchen.
She sat in the chair Daniel had used the night before.
The refrigerator clicked.
Jessica looked toward it.
“Your fridge is loud.”
“Family tradition.”
She almost smiled.
Then she looked down.
“I’m not here to ask for money.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Yes, you did.”
She was right.
I nodded.
“Yes. I did.”
That seemed to disarm her.
She opened her purse and removed a check.
Twenty-eight hundred dollars.
“What is this?” I asked.
“The refund from the resort deposit we paid after you canceled the suite. Daniel put it on his card. We got part back when we left early.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is an honest answer.”
She laughed once and then covered her eyes with her hand.
“I did a terrible thing at the airport.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you’d yell.”
“I know.”
“I was ready for you to yell.”
She looked at me.
“When you didn’t, I felt worse.”
I said nothing.
Jessica folded the check in half, then unfolded it.
“I wanted my mother to have one thing.”
“You could have invited her.”
“I thought you’d make it your trip anyway.”
“You never asked.”
“No.”
“You lied instead.”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of that admission left no room for performance.
She inhaled slowly.
“I told myself the kids were more comfortable with her because it sounded nicer than the truth.”
“What was the truth?”
“I was more comfortable with her.”
I felt something inside me shift.
Not forgiveness.
Clarity.
Jessica continued.
“When you’re around, Daniel becomes your son before he becomes my husband.”
“That is not my choice.”
“No. But you like it.”
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
She was crying now, angrily wiping at her face.
“I have spent fourteen years trying to build a life with a man who calls his mother when he’s scared. And you answer. Every single time.”
My throat tightened.
“What would you have me do?”
“Sometimes? Let him stay scared long enough to grow up.”
The refrigerator clicked off.
In the sudden quiet, I realized Jessica had just told me the same thing Claire had, only without charging by the hour.
Then she said, “There’s something else you need to know.”
I looked at her.
“Daniel didn’t just agree to give my mother your seat.”
She swallowed.
May you like
“It was his idea.”
